


Here Begins the Land of Phantoms

by Triangulum



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Demon Peter Hale, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 07:12:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17503994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Triangulum/pseuds/Triangulum
Summary: Stiles is four and scared of the dark. There are things in the shadows of his room, whispering to him, showing him terrible, violent things.There's something in the basement, too. He can feel it while he's sitting on the old, worn sofa, its presence  curling around the edges of the room. He thinks he can see something sometimes, a mass shimmering in the corner, but he always looks away. He doesn't want to know.OrPeter is a demon that lives in the Stilinskis' basement.





	Here Begins the Land of Phantoms

Stiles is four and scared of the dark. There are things in the shadows of his room, whispering to him, showing him terrible, violent things. A nightlight only makes it worse, gives the shadows more room to take shape and converge on him. He closes his eyes, hides under the blankets, like if he can't see them, they can't see him. It doesn't work, but at least he doesn't have to fear opening his eyes. His parents stop trying to get him to sleep without the lights on, knowing a losing battle when they see one.

There's something in the basement, too. He doesn't know what, but it's scary down there even without it. He'll go down with his mom or dad when they're doing laundry, not old enough to be left alone upstairs where he can get into all kinds of trouble. He can feel it while he's sitting on the old, worn sofa, its presence curling around the edges of the room. He thinks he can see something sometimes, a mass shimmering in the corner, but he always looks away. He doesn't want to know.

Looking away doesn't always help, though. He knows it's there, nudging against the corner of his mind. It doesn't feel as mean as the shadows in his room, but it's not nice, and it scares him even more. It shows him images of his mom, only rotting and decaying, reaching for him, screaming for him.

He stays out of the basement if he can.

* * *

Stiles is 11 and no longer scared of the dark. He's shivering, wet and cold. His mother just tried to drown him in the bathtub, but he was too strong. Or she was too weak from her illness. He's locked in his bedroom, shaking and cold but too scared to go get a towel, even though he thinks he heard her go outside. The lesson learned is that bad things don't just lurk in the dark. 

The shadows have lessened as he's gotten older. Maybe only little kids can see them well. Maybe some have gone away. He doesn't know, but he knows they don't like it when he ignores them. They throw themselves at him now, angry and scornful, but Stiles knows now that they can't touch him. They can show him scary sights and tell him horrifying things, but they can't touch him. 

His mother just tried to drown him. There's nothing they can show him right now that's going to push past that knowledge.

Stiles waits until he can see his mom's car pull out of the driveway before slinking out of his room and getting a towel, drying off and putting on dry clothes. He shudders walking by the bathroom, wonders how long it'll be before he can shower without thinking about it. He tosses the towel down the laundry chute in the hall closet, then pauses, listening to the towel thunk against the sides before hitting the basket waiting in the basement.

It's stupid and reckless, but Stiles is feeling stupid and reckless. For the first time since he was six and deemed old enough to stay upstairs while his parents do laundry, he goes down to the basement.

There's fear in his chest, growing with each step, but he doesn't stop. He's chasing the fear of his mom away, and will gladly replace it with this. It's been years, but that feeling of something curling around the edges of the basement is all too familiar. It seems stronger now, and...surprised? Stiles doesn't know if that's his imagination running away with him or not, but whatever is in the basement wasn't expecting him. 

Stiles walks to the back corner of the basement, the place where he could almost see it as a preschooler, a shimmer in the air like a mirage in the desert. He doesn't see anything now, but he thinks it's because whatever is here is holding itself very still, waiting for him to make the first move. It can be as still as it wants, but Stiles can still feel it, still feel the soft pressure in the room. He sits, back against the wall, next to a pile of boxes of junk his dad never unpacked when they moved.

Stiles sits in silence for a few moments, taking a few deep breaths until he realizes it's not fear he's feeling anymore. It's curiosity.

"You weren't trying to scare me," Stiles says quietly, like loud voices aren't allowed. He's told that a lot. "You were trying to warn me, weren't you?"

There's a shift in the air and Stiles can feel it next to him. He doesn't turn his head but can still see out of the corner of his eye, the mirage-like shimmer. 

_Yes._

It's not a voice exactly, and it's isn't out loud, but something resonating in his mind.

"Oh," Stiles says quietly. He fidgets with the sleeves of his hoodie, ripped and frayed from how often he messes with them. His mom hates that. "I didn't know."

_Hard._

"What's hard?" Stiles asks.

_Communicating. Right._

Stiles thinks to all the things it showed him, all the horrible ways his mom looked in the eyes of the thing in the basement. 

"You got the point across," Stiles says with a shrug. "I just didn't get it."

There's a soft hum and the shimmer moves closer, the warmth curling over him instead of around the edges of his senses. It's trying to comfort him, Stiles realizes. He wonder if it's its version of a hug. The pressure is greater on his upper arms, bruised from his mom's tight hands, like it's trying to ease the pain. 

Tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He draws his knees up to his chest and begins to cry. Not quiet, careful sniffles like right after it happened, afraid that if his mom heard, she would come back and finish what he escaped. No, he sobs, great, ugly noises from deep in his chest. The shimmer holds him tighter.

"What's your name?" Stiles asks when the sobs have stopped, though his voice is rough.

There's another impression of something, a lot of letters and sounds but also frustration, like they're coming out wrong.

Stiles blinks. "Uh, that's a lot," he says slowly. "I heard the 'puh' sound...can I call you Peter?"

There a pause, like the thing is pondering this, before there's another pulse of warmth.

_Yes._

* * *

Stiles is 13 and Peter is his friend. His mom is dead, his dad is a drunk, and Peter is his friend. Peter doesn't stick to the basement anymore, instead following Stiles around the house. At first it's slow like molasses, like Peter doesn't have the strength, but it gets easier as time goes on. 

The first time he makes it upstairs to Stiles' room, the ever-present shadows seem to freeze. Peter is still for moment, then loses it. The soft pressure Stiles is used to with Peter is suddenly stifling, like he's being squeezed from all sides. There's a shrieking and he realizes it's the shadows, screaming and writhing in pain. Just as soon as it starts, it's over, pressure returning to normal, like his ears popping when a plane starts to land. 

The shadows are gone after that. Stiles suspects Peter _ate_ them because he's stronger after, moves more fluidly, can speak for longer. 

The next week, when Stiles' mother dies in her bed, it's with a phantom weight on her chest, squeezing her tightly, pressing down on her until she can't breathe and can't hurt Stiles again. The last thing she hears before she dies is a rumbling voice telling her she earned this. Across the hall, Stiles sleeps fitfully, a handprint bruise on his face.

Peter is stronger, able to wrap vaporous arms around Stiles as he cries at the loss of his mother, cries even harder at the fact that he's relieved.

* * *

Stiles is 14 and Peter's physical form is getting more solid. He's no longer a shimmer in the air or a grey cloud, but the outline of a man. He's not completely solid all the time, he doesn't have a face, but that doesn't bother Stiles. He can hear Peter clearer in his mind now, conversation no longer slow like all those years ago. As Peter's grown stronger, his communication has gotten better. His sass comes through, his snark, a sarcastic and witty personality Stiles hadn't expected but enjoys.

When Stiles is angry coming from the school, it's Peter he talks to. When his dad is too busy, too drunk, too tired to remember to make dinner, it's Peter who keeps Stiles company as he cooks. When the sheriff is drunk and yelling at Stiles, it's Peter who curls around him like an angry cloud, hissing venomous words at the sheriff that he can't hear. 

Peter tells him the best place to hit a bully and make him _hurt_. Stiles gets detention, but Jackson doesn't touch him again. Peter tells him the best way to sneak out without being noticed. Peter tells him how to manipulate others, how to play dumb or oblivious or scared. Stiles already knows how to lie, but Peter makes him good at it.

Peter tells Stiles about magic.

_I can feel it._ Peter's voice in Stiles' head is like velvet, making him shiver. _It's soaked in your skin, growing as you do. You can learn to use it._

Peter doesn't have an answer to how or why Stiles has magic, but he can tell him where to start, how to feel for the buzzing of magic against his skin that he'd written off as an ADD thing, and what books to look for to learn more. A few trips to a local rare bookstore and some time online with his dad's credit card and he has a modest collection.

Stiles is still learning, is nowhere close to proficient, when he reads something in one of his new books. He checks it twice, spends a lot of time abusing the library's internet to confirm, before going home. Peter's in Stiles' room, as he usually is, in a more solid form. He nearly has a face now, looking more and more human everyday. 

Stiles slams the book down onto his desk, open to the page he'd been reading all day. Peter seems to still for a long moment before gliding over (Peter glides or floats, never walks) to scan the page. He freezes, the soft pressure Stiles is used to emanating from him nearly frigid.

"This is you," Stiles says. "Isn't it?"

The name has way too many syllables for Stiles to even pronounce, but he knows it's Peter. Every personality trait, every quirk, every dark desire and stray thought. Every bit of malice and moral decay are written out. Stiles still can't say the name, but he can read the classification next to it. Demon.

_You knew I wasn't human._ Peter's voice comes carefully, slowly, like he's testing the waters, which is fair. He's never been the target of Stiles' anger before.

"I didn't know that meant demon!" Stiles says. "Were you ever going to tell me?"

_No._ Stiles makes a frustrated noise. _We don't tell. It's not in our nature._

"This here," Stiles says, pointing to a paragraph. It says that most demons look for a host, but not all. Some bind themselves to people to use their strength. Some take magic users. "You're using me to get stronger, aren't you?!"

There's a long silence before a soft _...Yes._

"That's why you have a body now. That's why you can almost talk. That's why you're not stuck in the basement anymore," Stiles says, voice getting more hysterical as he goes.

_I'm not draining your life force or magic, I'm not hurting you. You're just helping me._

"Because I'm tied to you."

_Yes._ Stiles' heart is racing. There's no remorse there, no guilt. He wonders, not for the first time, just how far Peter's lack of morals goes. _I would never hurt you, Stiles._

"That's not as comforting as you think it is," Stiles says, collapsing back onto his bed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. 

_This helps you, too. Bound to a demon without owing it your soul? That's rare and a powerful boost to your magic. It's advantageous to have me on your side._

"Yeah? And are you on my side? You're a _demon_ , a spawn of Satan! You come from hell!"

_There's no need for name-calling._

"Oh my god."

There's quiet for a long time, then a weight settles on the bed next to him, Peter's warm pressure hesitant for the first time. Stiles doesn't open his eyes, but he doesn't pull away either. 

_You're my friend._

It's soft and very quiet, like Peter isn't sure if he should say it or not.

Stiles is quiet for a long time before sighing. "You're my friend, too."

* * *

Stiles is 16 and something is circling him. He can feel it while he's at school, on the edges of his senses, prodding at his defenses. His magic is stronger now (though Peter says it will become even stronger) and he can wrap it around himself like a cocoon, shielding him from whatever wants inside. He learned at a young age not to let anything in that's scratching at the door. 

He doesn't tell Peter at first because he's not sure if it's just his imagination or not. It starts with a flutter around the edges, like something is tasting his magic. He thinks that maybe it's because his magic is growing, letting him feel with more than his usually senses. He gets imprints of other things sometimes, like the souls of the older trees in the preserve, the ley lines beneath his feet, the magic trickling off the werewolf in her senior year.

This...doesn't stay like that, though. This doesn't keep fluttering around the edges, barely making its presence known. It starts pushing. Slowly at first, just testing the edges of Stiles' defenses, but then it gets bolder. Stiles is walking to his Jeep after school when he feels it slam into him hard enough that he stumbles against a Toyota, nearly falling. It bounces off, doesn't get through the magic wrapped around him, but it's stronger than before, and that scares him. It's no longer a curious nudge, it's an assault.

It hits him again on his way home, right when a light turns green. He's lucky there isn't anyone in front of him because he jerks with the force, foot slamming down on the accelerator, making his Jeep jump forward before he regains control, panting hard. He grips the wheel tightly, taking back roads home that others rarely drive on, just in case. 

He heaves a sigh of relief when he pulls into his driveway ten minutes later, shifting into park and turning off the engine. Then it happens again, a large, oppressive darkness swarming him, pressing against him from all sides, trying to find any chink in his armor, any crack his magic left exposed. It's painful, squeezing, makes him feel like there's no air in his lungs, like his skin is burning.

Stiles' magic lashes out, striking at the darkness around him. He thinks he hears a hiss of a pain and anger, a feeling of shock, before it disappears, flinging to the very edges of his senses. He can still feel it though, lurking and waiting.

Stiles throws open the car door and races inside, so grateful his dad is working. As soon as he's in the front door, Peter is there, a swirling form of grey ether. It's rare that Peter reverts to this form instead of the usual faceless shape he takes, usually only getting like this when he's agitated. Stiles is right, the second the door opens, Peter is on him, wrapped around him like a living sweater. Stiles hisses in pain when Peter moves over his arm. That shouldn't happen, he's never before felt more than just an imprint of Peter, let alone pain.

Stiles pulls off his flannel, pushing up his shirt sleeve to see a bruise around his forearm. A bruise in the shape of a hand, complete with claw marks at the tips, like something had grabbed him and been pulled away.

Peter goes berserk. He swirls around the kitchen, knocking over chairs, flinging cabinets open, raising a small wind that makes Stiles gasp. He can't hear what Peter's saying, but can glean a few emotions. Rage, possessiveness, and worst of all, fear. That last one is what makes Stiles' heart beat even faster.

"Peter," Stiles says softly, hands shaking. "Peter, what...what's happening?"

Peter slithers up to him, taking his more human form and wrapping himself around Stiles.

_It can't have you._ Peter's voice is deep and fierce, a growling rumble he's never heard before and he's reminded very viscerally that Peter is dangerous. He knows that, there's no way he couldn't, but he...forgets. Peter isn't a danger to _him_ but that doesn't mean he isn't dangerous.

"What is it?" Stiles asks. "Something tried...I don't know what, but it felt like an attack, I don't..."

_A nogitsune._ The words are short and clipped, spat with disdain. It's been a while since Peter resorted to sentences of only a few syllables. _Dangerous. Angry._

"What does it want?" Stiles asks, holding Peter tighter. It's a strange sensation, since Peter isn't fully solid, kind of like clinging to thicker than average air. 

_You._ And yeah, Stiles had been afraid that was the case. _Your magic would make it strong._

"My magic threw it off," Stiles says. "That's good, right?"

_Yes. But it'll be back. And it can't have you._

"It doesn't seem like the word 'no' is in its vocabulary," Stiles says. His voice doesn't shake, good. Snark has always been his go-to when he's scared.

_It's old._ Stiles swallows hard, but Peter presses tighter. _I'm older. And stronger._

"Yeah? You sure?"

_Yes,_ Peter hisses vehemently. _That's why it never tried for you here. I would feel it. I would stop it._ Stiles nods shakily. _You're mine, Stiles. And I am yours._

Peter curls around Stiles as he struggles to sleep that night. That's not exactly new, but the desperation and rage emanating off Peter are. Stiles has put up every kind of protection spell he knows, then every one he can manage that Peter knows. His sleep is restless, even with Peter wrapped protectively around him, but he finally manages.

Stiles doesn't go to school the next day, not willing to make a bigger target of himself if Peter is right and the nogitsune is waiting for him to be alone. He stays home, gives a very unconvincing fake cough to his dad, and gets to researching. He finds almost nothing, nothing more than what Peter has already told him, at least. Peter's still and vigilant, but Stiles can feel his agitation, his unrest. As much as he tries to shield it from Stiles, Peter's a part of him now as much as Stiles is a part of Peter. Peter could feel when the nogitsune had attacked Stiles, could feel his fear, and Stiles can feel Peter now. 

"Not to be a dick," Stiles says, closing out of an unhelpful blog article, "but if you're not strong enough to leave the house with me, how are you strong enough to take on the nogitsune?"

Stiles can feel the bristling of Peter's pride but they both know it's a fair point.

_A lack of strength isn't why I can't leave this house. I was tethered here by a bitter druid decades ago._

"Yeah, I know, but you said you're not strong enough to break that tether," Stiles says.

There's a rumble of irritation from behind him, then Peter's at his back, curling around him. _Different strengths. I don't need to be able to break a mad druid's spells to destroy a lesser demon._

"Lesser?" Stiles says, frowning. Everything he's read has said how strong a nogitsune is, how even a young one isn't to be fucked with.

_Lesser than me._

"Peter," Stiles says slowly. He'd asked once when he was younger, when Peter had just started guarding him as he slept, exactly what Peter is, but Peter hadn't answered, had said maybe he'd tell him later. He'd asked again when he'd found the book of demons, asking if it was accurate, pressing for details, but Peter had still been cagey. 

_Stiles._

"Where exactly are you in the whole demon hierarchy thing?" Stiles asks.

_Above a nogitsune._

"That's not what I asked," Stiles says. Peter's hesitant and Stiles is pretty sure it's because he thinks he's going to scare Stiles off, that maybe it'll be the final nail that makes Stiles run screaming. Not a chance. "Just give me a ballpark here. Are you like the king of hell?"

_Not king._ Stiles' eyes widen. _A...duke._

"Duke. You're a duke of hell."

_That would be a human equivalent._

"Holy shit."

_I like you, Stiles. Just because I haven't shown you cruelty doesn't mean I'm incapable of it._

Stiles never forgets Peter's a demon. How could he? But maybe he sometimes forgets what that means? Peter's his friend. Peter helps him work through homework issues. He listened to Stiles talk about his first crush. He wraps around Stiles after nightmares. Peter's never really been, well, _demonic_ to Stiles. But the power in Peter is undeniable. There's a tightly controlled coldness to him, a deep pit of dark that swims with twisted morals. The nogitsune felt different. It was pure malice. Evil, wild hate, uncontrolled and uncaring. Stiles knows which he prefers. 

Stiles can't break the tether the dark druid put on Peter, his magic isn't strong enough for that yet, but he can do a simple masking spell. He makes it seem like Peter's gone, leaving a false trail of demonic energy away from his house. He doesn't really think it'll work, but Peter is confident. He says demons think differently, that the nogitsune won't expect Peter to stay, that it doesn't understand caring or friendship. It makes sense for Peter to run if his safe haven is no longer safe. Stiles isn't sure, but he's sure in Peter, so he does it. 

In the end, he doesn't have to do much of anything. He waits, a masked Peter at his side. The nogitsune comes within an hour. He can feel it coming, feel the hate and malice and glee a second before it's pressing against him from all sides. It only lasts for a split second. Peter bursts forth, all cold rage and viciousness. The nogitsune is away from Sties in an instant, letting him drag in a deep breath that'd been kept from him. He watches, shaking, as Peter in his vaporous form fights with what looks like a small fox made of lightning. The nogitsune isn't expecting Peter, isn't expecting anything more than a fledgling magic-user, and Stiles can feel the fear rolling off it.

It's over quickly, the nogitsune ripped apart by Peter with a pained shriek, and wow Stiles is glad his dad isn't home. There's a rumble, a deep shaking and then the little shards of lightning that used to be the fox are absorbed by Peter. His form swells, black, nebulous cloud expanding and swirling until he's filling the entire room. Stiles can't see anything but the blackness around him, but he isn't afraid of the dark anymore. The dark is Peter, and the dark is where Stiles knows he's safe. Peter's radiating power, jubilation, and triumph, rippling over Stiles' skin. Stiles immediately knows what it means. Peter's broken the druid's tether.

"Peter," Stiles says softly. 

Almost immediately, the black vapor shrinks into the human-like form Peter often takes, except this time, Peter has a face. He has striking blue eyes, a strong jaw, and the most intense stare Stiles has seen outside his dad's interrogation face. He sinks to his knees in front of where Stiles is sitting on the carpet, the place where Peter'd ripped the nogitsune away form him.

"Stiles," Peter says softly. It's the first time he's spoken aloud instead of whispering in Stiles' mind. Stiles loves the voice, the rumbling cadence and tone, though he misses the Peter speaking in his mind. He gently frames Stiles' face, large hands cradling him. "You did so well."

"I didn't do anything," Stiles says. 

"You trusted me to take care of it," Peter says. 

"You took its power, broke the tether," Stiles says. Peter nods. "You're leaving."

Peter's expression doesn't change, but Stiles knows he's right.

"Not forever," Peter says, brushing thumbs over Stiles' cheekbones. "I'll be back, sweetheart. There are just a few things I need to get in order."

"Right," Stiles says hollowly. "Duke of hell paperwork, right."

"I've been tied here for nearly a century," Peter says. "That's not exactly long for my kind, but long enough that there are things I need to take care of."

"You're leaving me," Stiles repeats. "You got what you wanted and you're leaving."

"No," Peter says, shaking his head. "I told you, I'm yours, Stiles."

Stiles nods, eyes intent on Peter's face, desperate to memorize all of it that he can before he disappears. Peter leans in, kisses him on the forehead and whispers that he'll be back, then he's gone, leaving nothing behind but the faint smell of ozone. 

Each day that Peter is gone is harder than the last. He trusts Peter, as dumb as that is to trust a demon, and he believes he'll be back, but there's a tiny voice in the back of his head that says _but what if?_ and that voice gets harder to ignore each day. His dad gives him worried looks as he talks less, though his teachers look relieved and don't ask any questions. Well, other than Finstock, who literally prods Stiles with a lacrosse stick until he gives a more detailed answer in class.

A week later, Peter appears in Stiles' bedroom with the scent of ozone. He's dressed in jeans and a grey sweater, and really, a demon looking all soft in a sweater? Unacceptable. Stiles drops the dirty laundry he was holding and runs forward, crashing into Peter. Peter's never been this solid, has never been able to hold him as tightly as he is now. Stiles is also _very_ aware of just how hot Peter is, but he refuses to let his hormones run away with him. That can be a crisis for another day. Right now, his closest friend is back.

"I told you I'd be back," Peter says, voice amused. He's holding Stiles tightly though, betraying his casual tone.

"Yeah, and now you are," Stiles says. "Just in time, I have this paper on circumcision I want you to read."

* * *

Stiles is 18 and his friends are idiots. They leave for college in a couple weeks, ready to start their adult lives (sure, whatever) and think a great sendoff is going to the old McGovern house, an old Victorian that everyone in Beacon Hills says is haunted. Stiles is less than convinced.

"It's a demon house!" Scott says.

"It'll be fun," Isaac says, the little shit. "Unless you guys are scared."

"No," Scott says. "Demons aren't real."

Stiles just rolls his eyes. There isn't shit Isaac could do that would scare him.

So he ends up rolling up to the McGovern house at 10:00 p.m. with Scott, Allison, and Isaac. Lydia and Jackson pull in behind them, followed by Boyd and Erica. They like to act tough, like nothing scares them, but Stiles can see where Jackson's eyes are a bit too wide, where Isaac keeps biting his lip, where Erica clutches at Boyd's hand. He can feel something with his magic, but it feels like a residual haunting if anything. Not exactly mindblowing stuff here, but Scott wanted to come, so here they are.

Once inside, the air shifts a bit. Okay, maybe more than a ghost. Stiles still isn't very impressed, not even when twenty minutes in, a dozen demons start swirling. They're tiny things, stereotypical with little horns and devil tails. Lesser demons, nothing compared to what Stiles is used to. His friends scream, backing up in a huddle against the wall as the demons swarm closer. 

"You're all hurr durr, let's go to a demon house!" Stiles mutters, stalking forward. "This is what you get, dumbasses."

"Stiles!" Scott hisses, trying to drag him back, but Stiles shrugs out of his grip.

"Yo! Fucked up cherubs," Stiles says. His magic is pulled tightly around him, just in case, but he doubts there's much they could do to truly harm him, not with as weak as they are.

It takes a second, but then they recognize him, recognize the claim Peter has on him, the demonic stamp that marks him as Peter's and off limits. There's a frightened chattering, one of the demons nearly falling in midair. Stiles waves cheerily, smirking at the fear that earns him. They start to fade, flying farther and farther away until they're gone, leaving the house quiet and still.

"Stiles..." Scott says slowly. "What the hell was that?"

"You're the ones who wanted to come to a demon house," Stiles says, looking at the shaking huddle of his friends. "Have you ever watched horror movies, any of you? Come on, you know better than this." Stiles shakes his head and walks to the front door. He isn't in the mood for an inquisition.

"Wait! Stiles, where are you going?" Allison asks.

"Peter's on his way," Stiles says.

"Peter? Peter your imaginary friend? From like elementary school?" Scott asks.

Stiles snorts and just shakes his head. There's a warm pulse that Stiles associates with Peter, and he knows he's waiting for him. When he steps outside, there's Peter, leaning casually against the porch railing.

"Darling, what have I said about keeping yourself safe?"

"Please, you'd never have let them do anything. You'd just resurrect me if they did," Stiles says. Peter sighs. "Okay, in my defense, I didn't actually expect it to be a demon house. How many of them can there be in Beacon Hills?! That seems like bad zoning."

Peter sighs again. "Come on, let's go before your friends regain their confidence and come looking for you," Peter says.

Peter tugs Stiles in close, much closer than necessary, and clasps his hands. Within the space of blink, shadows are wrapping around them, turning everything black, before falling away, leaving Stiles and Peter in his bedroom. Peter sighs, resting his forehead against Stiles'.

"You know I worry about you," Peter says. "Sometimes I think you have a death wish."

Stiles shrugs. "No death wish here, just a different definition of fear than the average high schooler," Stiles says.

"I wish you'd develop a bit more caution," Peter says. "There are plenty of terrible things that can happen to you before I get there."

Stiles shrugs again, pulling back. "Guess you're gonna have to stick close to me, then. You can probably scare my roommate away, then we could have a dorm to ourselves."

"A dorm," Peter says, shaking his head. "I have legions of demons under my command and I'm going to be living in a dorm that smells like sweat and years of sexual frustration."

"You don't have to. You could always just pop in and visit," Stiles says, knowing full well there's not a chance of Peter leaving him. 

Peter scoffs. "Not likely."

Stiles just grins. How many people can say they're bringing a demon to college?

* * *

Stiles is 22, he just graduated, and his father is dead, killed in a car accident of all things. Stiles had always thought he'd die in the line of duty or from heart disease, but not some drunk idiot driving the wrong way on the freeway. He has no family left, no friends nearby (most people at college think he's weird, which is fair), no one but Peter.

He sits on his dad's bed, looking down at his hand. His magic is flowing like bright blue, sparking water, weaving over and between his fingers easily. It would be easy to lose control, easy to lash out and destroy the room. Hell, he could take the entire house, he's powerful enough. Instead he leans against Peter's shoulder, tucked under his arm, watching his magic dance on his hands.

"I'm going to kill him," Stiles says quietly. "I'm going to kill him for killing my dad."

"I assumed as much," Peter says. "Though I advise caution. Killing changes a man."

"What, I'll end up in hell?" Stiles says, rolling his eyes.

"Sweetheart, we both know that when your time comes, you'll be down there right beside me," Peter says calmly.

Stiles sighs. "Yeah, I know," he says. "Are you going to help me or not?"

"Of course I am."

Stiles makes sure nothing can trace back to him. He's invisible to the security cameras in the hospital where the drunk driver is being treated. He makes sure an astral projection of himself is reading in the park in full view of where the deputies eat lunch. He makes sure that when the driver dies, it's with a scream that no one will hear, eyes wide and terrified as Stiles twists his hands in the air, wrenching the life from him. 

Stiles walks out of the hospital, unseen by all, power thrumming in his veins from stealing a life. Peter's at his side, a feral grin on his face. 

_I always knew you had it in you,_ is whispered in his mind.

* * *

Stiles is 25 and living in San Francisco with Peter. To the average person, he's a writer, and a successful one at that if he's able to afford an apartment like he has in the most expensive part of the city. To the non-average person, things are a little different.

Stiles' magic, powerful and boosted by his connection to Peter, is something of a hot commodity. Everyone in the know of the supernatural wants a magical solution to their problem. He lays wards for beings that can't do it themselves, banishes ghosts and demons that haven't learned their time is up, boosts local werewolf packs' borders. Occasionally, he kills someone or something that needs killing, and that pays very well.

"Love," Peter murmurs, stepping up behind where Stiles is standing in front of the fireplace. He wraps his arms around Stiles' waist, pressing a kiss to his throat. "I thought you hate potion work?"

"I do," Stiles says, staring down at the cauldron in the fire. It doesn't need to be a cauldron, but Stiles thought it was hilarious and bought it on impulse. He leans back into Peter's touch, tilting his head to the side and sighing as Peter takes that as permission, dropping lazy kisses and nips to his sensitive skin. "But $100,000 is a good motivator."

"Mm, fair," Peter says. "Do you have to watch it, or can I steal you away?"

Stiles grins, turning in Peter's grip until they're face to face. He rolls his hips against Peter's, making his eyes flash red, a sign of his strength from being bound so tightly to Stiles.

"I can let you steal me away," Stiles says. "You have exactly two hours and twenty-two minutes."

"I can make it work. I'll skip that thing with my tongue," Peter says, hefting a laughing Stiles over his shoulder.

"You will _not!_!"

Peter just laughs.

* * *

Stiles is 30 and the most powerful magic-user in the northern hemisphere. Peter, at his side, has grown in power, enough so that even his sister, who sits atop the underworld's throne, is nervous. People whisper about the witch and his pet demon, and about the demon and his leashed witch. 

Stiles laughs when they say a magic like that can't be tamed or controlled, that his soul is tainted. He's been to hell. Peter took him when he said he was curious. Being there at Peter's side wouldn't exactly be the worst way to spend eternity.

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't what I meant to write, but it's what happened.
> 
> Come talk to me on [ tumblr ](http://www.hotpinklizard.tumblr.com).


End file.
